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There it stands, though alas, what a little of herShows in its cold white look!Not her glance, glide, or smile; not a tittle of herVoice like the purl of a brook;Not her thoughts, that you read like a book.

It may stand for her once in NovemberWhen first she breathed, witless of all;Or in heavy years she would rememberWhen circumstance held her in thrall;Or at last, when she answered her call!

Nothing more. The still marble, date-graven,Gives all that it can, tersely lined;That one has at length found the havenWhich every one other will find;With silence on what shone behind.